


here/home/happy

by groaninlynch



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaninlynch/pseuds/groaninlynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a dream: he's home, he's home, he's home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here/home/happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downmoon/gifts).



> i was half-asleep when my brain was like, consider this: bokuto is in the mafia & akaashi is his secret! and i was like.. ok... thanks for that ig :)))
> 
> i literally wouldnt have written this if [downmoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/downmoon) hadnt been interested when i was crying abt it on twitter sooo this is for them :')
> 
> its short bc i just kinda mashed it out at midnight while i was struggling to stay awake but....  
> anyhoo, enjoy!

Keiji’s mind is quiet, dulling into sleep haze, the absolute stillness of the dark bedroom pressing him out of consciousness and into a warm dreamscape. It is deep into night; he had waited and waited while telling himself he wasn’t waiting — he wanted to do some extra work, to read a bit of his book, to watch the late-night news. But the blaring light of the TV screen had burned his tired eyes, and he was out of excuses.

He is freefalling out of reality and into cottony slumber… blankets a cocoon of comfort… pillow cradling his head so soft, so soft, so soft…

The front door creaks open and Keiji’s eyes snap open, heart punching a hole through his chest—

Socked feet shuffling along the wooden floorboards, rustling of clothes being dropped, Keiji’s hand gripping sheet fabric—

_He’s—_

A hard sigh, long sigh, neverending exhausted breath pouring out, and Keiji bites his bottom lip—

_He’s…_

The bedroom door whispers over the rug as it slowly pushes open. A dark silhouette stands against the empty blackness of the hallway. Dead still, dead silent—

Keiji’s heart a singing bird in his chest, struggling to fly out of his mouth—  

_He’s home._

Keiji sits up immediately to alert his wakefulness: time is too limited, too rare, to feign sleep. He turns the bedside lamp on low, dim light bathing over the room. The silhouette is no longer a vague suggestion at a person but a full figure, an illuminated person, it’s him it’s him it’s _him. He’s here._

Keiji folds his trembling hands on top of the blanket. He swallows. He smiles. Swallows again. Inhales to ease the prickling behind his eyes, and then says quietly, “Welcome back.”

The day —  and all its painful tasks and aggravating people and hard discussions — crumbles away from Koutarou’s face, leaving only his tired gold eyes and wan but genuine grin. He runs a hand through the wild mess of black and grey hair on his head, making it stand on end ridiculously. He sighs a harsh breath through his nose.

“I’m home,” Koutarou says thickly, mouth twisting bitterly around the words. He covers his eyes with a hand for a long moment. Pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. Shakes his head silently. Keiji swallows down the tightness in his own throat.

What’s worse: the morning farewells or evening hellos?

“Koutarou,” Keiji says. When he looks up, Keiji holds out his arms. _Come here. Come to me. Come home_.

What’s worse: the very real desire to help and being powerless to do so, or disguising greediness for affection as offers of comfort?

Koutarou kicks off his socks, shucks off his pants, whips his button-down over his head rather than unbuttoning it, and flops gracelessly onto the bed. Keiji huffs a laugh and smiles down at the erratic chaos that is Koutarou’s hair, settling his arms around Koutarou’s shoulders. The lamplight dully accents the thin ink lines patterning Koutarou’s skin. Keiji traces his fingertips along the familiar avenues of delicate black feathers, elegant red flower petals, swirling contours spanning out into a brilliant world that Keiji never tires of contemplating. Koutarou nuzzles his face into Keiji’s blanketed stomach, strong arms encircling Keiji’s waist in a loose hold.

What’s worse: the average simplicity of life before him or the intoxicating complicatedness of life now?

Koutarou lifts his head and meets Keiji’s eyes, gold gaze glinting in the lowlight. Keiji rests a hand on his cheek. _He’s here_. Koutarou pulls an arm around and presses his own hand over Keiji’s. He closes his eyes. _He’s home_. He puts his lips to Keiji’s wrist, gentle pressure and light breaths—once, twice, thrice—then starts a trail of soft kisses along Keiji’s arm, slowly making his way upward — the crook of Keiji’s elbow, his bicep, his shoulder. Koutarou shifts up the bed, mattress creaking as he settles on his knees, taking Keiji’s face in his hands. Keiji’s own hands again find their way to Koutarou’s back — strong, hard, muscled, solid, here, here, _here._

_He’s home he’s here he’s alive alive alive alive alive———_

What’s worse: the fake name his number is saved under, or how the number sits untouched, not allowed to be used?

The singing bird between Keiji’s ribs has grown into a choir flock, trilling a harmonic opera as Koutarou kisses his cheeks and forehead and the tip of his nose and the point of his chin and behind his ear and then again and again and again because he knows it’s where Keiji is ticklish and Keiji is laughing bashfully, shoulder coming up to ward Koutarou off even while his arms pull Koutarou in and he’s so— He’s so—

Koutarou leans back, smoothing his thumbs over the apple of Keiji’s cheeks and just looking at him. And he’s smiling. And Keiji is smiling. And the birds are _bellowing_ , screaming into the deep dark night about _this man, this man,_ Keiji’s heart a frenzied cacophony because of this man, this _man_ , and how he is so— How Keiji is _so—_

Koutarou’s eyelids slide closed and he dips close and presses his mouth to Keiji’s and it’s—  it’s always like— that first fucking time, before he had known anything about a man with grey hair and gold eyes and a toothy grin other than his heart was whispering to _get him_ and his mind was yelling to _grab on—_ that first damn time when gold eyes had slipped shut and he had tasted the sun on his mouth— _everytime—_ back then it had felt like a revelation pouring into his body and now it felt like— a risk. a promise. a threat. a _revelation_.

And _he— is— so—_

— _happy_.

_He’s alive._

When they pull apart, Keiji keeps his eyes closed. He breathes in. Koutarou smells like expensive cologne and cigarette smoke — foreign, detached, apart, save for the faint scent of the lavender shampoo Keiji uses and Koutarou often steals. The fading trace of cheap supermarket shampoo connecting Koutarou to this place grounds Keiji in the reality of the moment. _he. is. alive._ He breathes out.

What’s worse: pathetically grasping at loose threads wherever they may hang, or the overwhelming relief those fragile strings bring?

Koutarou moves off Keiji and slides onto the vacant side of the bed, shuffling under the blankets with the contented noises of someone who works too much on too little rest. Keiji shuts off the lamp and settles onto his side, facing Koutarou in the dark. A hand comes to cup Keiji’s cheek, brush hair out of his eyes. The flock has soothed into a humming lullaby, notes pulsing along his heartline. The cushiony embrace of sleep is reaching toward him once again…

He goes easily when Koutarou pulls him close, pillowing his head on Koutarou’s warm chest. Warm, warm, warm, a heart beating softly against his ear _alive here alive here,_ arms tightening around him in a comforting hug, face pressing into his hair, surrounding him completely, totally, entirely _here_.

The stillness of a dark room is less pervasive when wrapped in a strong embrace.

Sleep-haze is blurring the edges of his consciousness when he’s brought back to the precipice of wakefulness by Koutarou softly whispering,”You are the most precious thing in my life.”

_The most precious thing. . . ?_

Keiji recalls blearily when he had once asked _What do you do?_ and had gotten _Business management_ and a rueful grin in reply.

When he had felt the puckered scars perfectly mirroring each other from front to back — an entry and an exit — and asked _Where is this from?_ and had received an overdramatic story about a tussle with a rabid dog.

When he had begun piecing together separate cell phones and  extended “vacations” and the _I-call-you-don’t-call-me_ rule.

When he googled what a goddamn gunshot wound looks like when healed over.

When he had asked _Have you ever hurt anyone?_ and the reply was downcast eyes and dead, consuming silence.

And _Has anyone ever hurt you?_ and again the silence.

When he had taken a breath and started _Do I—_ then had to stop to collect himself, swallow his fear, still his shaking hands and finish _Do I need to worry about you coming back hurt?_ when what he really meant was _about you being killed?_ and then the silence, the silence, that godawful fucking silence.

When, after the trembling subsided and his face was dry and his voice had returned, he had asked _Are you happy?_ and the way gleaming gold eyes had snapped up and hands had found his face and the answer had been — has been — hopefully always will be — strong solid sure _When I’m with you._

 He wonders vaguely if Koutarou has any other precious things or if _most_ is interchangeable with _only_.

He wants to say something, ask something, acknowledge him somehow, but exhaustion has finally tethered him to bottomless unconsciousness and he slips away to the steady rhythm of _alive here alive here_ —

_The most precious thing—_

_Please keep coming home to me._

**Author's Note:**

> >mfw even my "angst" is fluffy.... li ssEN I DONT LIKE WRITING SAD THINGS,
> 
> bokuto's back tattoo is, ofc, of a great-horned owl. its wings are stretched out in flight and the feathers go up the backs of his arms. also theres flowers and like probably a moon n some stars.... the whole shebang.
> 
> my original thought was far more involved than this fic, like, bokutos relationship is found out and akaashi is snatched and bokuto has to work to get him back and yada yada endless drama that would warrant a massive multichaptered undertaking, and..... im really not good at longfic,, im too weak my friends... but idk im thinking maybe ill add more oneshots to this verse instead bc im getting kinda attached to this au
> 
> anywayyy hmu!!! i love so much talking to u guys! & sometimes i tweet snippets ive written that dont find their way to ao3 heheh :3c  
> -[twitter](http://twitter.com/groaninlynch)  
> -[tumblr](http://groaninlynch.tumblr.com)


End file.
